Molly by Moonlight
by cactusnell
Summary: Moriarty's back, and Molly has been sequestered, for her protection, at the Holmes family home in the country. Why isn't she at Baker Street? Sherlolly


Dr. Molly Hooper sat is what she had decided to call a small glade, a minute clearing in a long line of trees and shrubs which bordered a small brook, which in turn, formed the southernmost boundary of the property on which she was a guest. She sat upon a hand-hewn wooden bench, which faced the brook side of the clearing, although the brook itself was obscured by a stand of trees and shrubs. It was the night of the full moon, and the clearing was bathed in a silvery light. If that wasn't enough, the tiny lights of dozens of glowworms twinkled in the shrubbery, like fairies calling their loved ones home.

The bench Molly sat upon had been carved years earlier, and installed on the site as a sort of loving memorial, not by the chief mourner, but by his mother, seeking perhaps to convey some sharing of his grief. "REDBEARD 1981 - 1988" was hand-carved, in large letters, emblazoned across the back by the artisan who had fashioned the bench, a local craftsman. In smaller letters across the lower plank of the back were the words, "A pirate's faithful companion." The companion in question lay among the shrubbery and glowworms opposite where she was sitting, his resting place marked by a flat stone crudely carved, as if by a child, with a skull and crossbones.

Molly had been at the Holmes "cottage" for just over a week now, since the Moriarty broadcast had thrown quite a few of her friends and acquaintances into a panic. She had resisted Sherlock Holmes' repeated demands that she move into his flat on Baker Street, where he could assure her safety from the criminal kingpin, who had, by this time, assuredly, realized the role she had played in his false death. She was an ally, an asset, a friend whom the consulting criminal had overlooked. He was not likely to make the same mistake twice. But Molly had refused to move to Baker Street. She and Sherlock had not been on the best of terms. The last time they had spoken about something other than a case, she had slapped him. Hard. And repeatedly. He had been using again, something he had promised her he would never return to. And he had been dating Mary's maid of honor. Good lord, the tabloid headlines about his sexual exploits! And then he had murdered Charles Augustus Magnusen, and had chosen an exile ending in death rather than facing a useless death in prison. Mycroft had told her of his sentence, but the detective himself had made no move to say goodbye. She had tried to use her anger to assuage her pain, but the later had won in the end, and she had spent night after night sobbing hopelessly as the love of her life prepared for a one-way flight to oblivion. Then Moriarty made a filmed reappearance, and Sherlock was banging at her door, ordering her to move to Baker Street. And, god, she wanted to! But not this way. She wanted to be loved, and wanted, not pitied and protected. So she steadfastly refused until Mycroft offered the solution which satisfied everyone. Molly Hooper would take up residence in Sussex, at the Holmes family homestead, as well-protected as anyone in England, with the possible exception of the Royal Family. So she was currently residing on a rural property, in a listed cottage, with the most modern security the British government had to offer, and the comforting presence of Violet and Siger Holmes, who had welcomed her with open arms. At times these arms seemed to her just a bit too open.

Dr. Hooper was distracted by the soft sound of footsteps across the grassy surface, rapidly approaching her isolated area. The footsteps sounded to have a rather more youthful vigor than she would have expected of Violet or Siger. Probably Mycroft once again, making his way down to the secluded area to berate her about being out of sight, and contact, for close to two hours. Him, or one of his security minions, she quickly decided, although his concern was certainly unwarranted. Molly didn't believe for a single instant that an errant fox could make his way onto the property without setting off alarms in the house, and the guard shacks, and Whiterhall itself. The occupants of the cottage were more protected than the only child of doting and paranoid millionaire parents. But when the tall figure made his way to the small clearing, she realized immediately that it was not Mycroft Holmes, but his brother Sherlock.

"Molly," he said softly, as if not wanting to disturb the peace of the place.

"Sherlock! What are you doing here? Your parents said you never visit."

" 'Never' might be rather strong term, Molly. 'Seldom' would be more appropriate, I believe," the detective replied, rather stiffly, as if not sure of his welcome.

"Alright, then, seldom. What are you doing here now, then?"

"I would think that that is rather obvious. I came to check on your wellbeing."

"That's hardly necessary. I'm sure your brother has kept you informed of my every move, although those movements are rather heavily confined to the property."

"But it is a lovely property, Molly. Other people pay quite a bit of money to spend their holidays in a listed cottage in the country. You should try to enjoy it more. Are my parents annoying you? I could speak to them…"

"Your parents are lovely, Sherlock. Are you sure you're not adopted?"

"Nonsense, Dr. Hooper. Surely you can tell I have my mother's eyes!" Sherlock said with almost a smile. He was trying to be friendly, and Molly noticed that he even looked different. No fitted suit and tight shirt, but a pair of lean jeans, and a knit shirt, although the shirt was still the lovely shade of purple, aubergine, he called it, that set off his eyes to such perfection.

"Sherlock, since you asked about your parents, there IS something I would like to ask you."

"Of course," he replied, with just the slightest hesitation.

"Is it possible that your mother has gotten the idea that we are more closely connected than we are?"

"We are rather close, Molly. Or, at least, we were."

"Listen to me! Your parents have been so friendly and welcoming, telling me all sorts of things, and assuming that I know things about you, things about which I have no idea. It gets confusing! Sometimes it almost seems like they think we're a couple…"

"A couple of what, Molly?" The detective asked with a slight grin.

"Stop teasing me, and answer the question! Do they think we are , uh, together, as in...ah,"

Molly was trying to get the question out, but found herself stuttering instead.

"No reason to be nervous, Molly. I assure you that I have never told my parents that we are involved in a relationship."

"Good! I'd hate to think I was welcomed into their home under false pretenses. They've been so kind."

"Yes, Molly, you've said that before. My parents are kind. So kind that you cannot believe that Mycroft and I have sprung from their loins…"

"I never said anything about Mycroft, Sherlock!"

"So, you think Mycroft is kind, and I am not?"

"Sherlock, you are one of the most generous, bravest, and kindest men I know, when you allow yourself to be. I just wish you'd allow it more often!"

"I'm not, you know. It doesn't come naturally to me, as it does to you. I don't mean to be UNkind, but I know it comes out that way. You are possibly the only person in the world who sees me as kind, Molly. Thank you for that." Sherlock took a seat on the bench next to his pathologist. "And, in the spirit of my almost non-existent kindness, I should perhaps tell you that I have, in fact, told my mother that we have been sharing a bed, on occasion, for a number of years…"

"Sherlock!"

"Well, we have, don't deny it!"

"But all we've ever done is sleep!"

"That is exactly what I told Mummy. That we have been sleeping together. It's not my fault if she took it figuratively, instead of literally! I merely told her the truth. We do share a bed on occasion. That futon in your guest room is an abomination, after all."

"Oh, my god!" Molly exclaimed, blushing. "All those questions about when I would be ready to settle down! And how many children I wanted! And the disapproving look she gave me when she talked about you not showing up for your cousin's wedding! Sherlock, did you tell her that was my fault?"

"Really, I don't understand why she is still upset about that. That was years ago, Will is only a distant cousin, at best, and the Cathedral was already overcrowded! Mummy can hold a grudge, though. Best to stay on her good side, Molly."

"Why didn't you just correct her thinking, Sherlock? Now she thinks that we're, well, that we…"

"Are lovers, Molly. Surely the thought doesn't frighten, or depress, you too much?"

"Sherlock! You must straighten them out concerning our relationship! She may be expecting you to sleep in your old room tonight."

"Of course she is. It's my room, after all!"

"But that where I sleep, you git. And it's a single bed! You'll have to use Mycroft's room."

"Impossible, Molly. I drove down from the city with my brother. For the entire weekend, too. He will be using his room, with Anthea, of course."

"Anthea's here? Good, I missed feminine companionship."

"Mycroft could have sufficed for that, Molly. And is my mother not feminine enough for you?"

"Your mother is wonderful, Sherlock. She's smart, and funny, and…"

"Kind. Yes, I know. So unlike me." He rolled his eyes.

"Tell me, is there some particularly nasty tyrant, or psychopath, in your family somewhere. Someone whose recessive genes might have shown up in your DNA?"

"The gene may not be so recessive, Dr. Hooper. You have yet to meet the rest of my extended family." Sherlock said this with a snicker, and perhaps a touch of misplaced pride. "But, anyway, back to my mother. I understand that perhaps her advanced years may make it hard for your to find things truly in common, and that Anthea may satisfy your need for companionship in a more substantive way. And don't worry about the sleeping arrangements. There is, of course, a trundle bed in my room, a remnant of the days when my parents believed, or hoped, that I would turn out to be a normal child, and envisioned countless sleepovers with close friends. Which never, of course, happened."

"Until now?"

"We'll see, shall we?"

"Why would you mislead your parents like this, Sherlock?"

"I didn't mislead them, Molly. I told them the literal truth. I always say exactly what I mean. Is it my fault if they misunderstood?"

Molly heaved a heavy sigh of surrender, knowing she would never win this argument, so she decided to change the subject. "I love this spot, Sherlock. It's so peaceful. Even the background water noise is more like a murmurring brook, rather than a babbling one."

"I used to play her as a child. Mycroft helped me bury my dog, Redbeard, over there in the shrubbery. I carved a stone for him all by myself. I was twelve when he died. I should have been starting to develop an interest in girls, but all I cared about was my dog! Mummy got so concerned about me spending my evenings on the damp ground, that she had this bench made. I hardly ever sat on it, I still preferred sitting next to Redbeard, hidden back in the shrubs, surrounded by glowworms, and playing with him in my mind palace, although it was more of a mind pirate ship back then, as I recall. Mycroft made better use of the damned bench than I ever did!"

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock snickered a bit before he continued. "My brother was not as backward as I when it came to the opposite sex, Molly. And he was considerably older. A secluded area of a lovely garden, with a comfortable bench was the ideal place for him to bring his conquests. I received quite an education, looking on from behind the bushes."

Molly found it hard to reconcile her present day image of Mycroft Holmes with the picture which Sherlock was painting of his brother. "Surely he didn't know you were watching, Sherlock."

"Of course he did, Molly. He winked at me on several occasions, when he could get away with it without tipping off his current paramour. I remember one particularly emphatic wink the night I caught my first glimpse of a female breast not my mother's!"

"Sherlock!"

"My brother was hardly the gentleman in those days which he is today, Molly. And, to speak more kindly of him, it was a particularly attractive female breast!" Sherlock seemed to smile, even now, at the memory.

"I didn't know you were interested in such things, Sherlock."

"Molly, one should never mistake inaction for disinterest."

Molly was now giggling just a bit. "Well, he certainly selected a lovely spot for it. What girl could resist. The garden, the moonlight, the brook, and the glowworms. So romantic!"

"So, you believe that any female would have been an easy conquest in such a setting as this?"

"Perhaps not totally easy, but virtually anyone would be more susceptible to advances, I would think. It's like a fairytale out here, especially with the full moon."

"Mycroft as Prince Charming. I never considered that!"

"I guess Anthea has, though!"

"How about yourself, Dr. Hooper?"

"No, Sherlock, Mycroft is not my idea of a charming Prince!"

"I am very relieved to hear that, but that isn't what I meant. I meant to ask if you, yourself, would be more susceptible in the moonlit garden glade." He turned to bring the full force of his wonderful eyes to bear on her, before cupping her chin and moving his lips very close to hers. "I mean to being kissed in this rather romantic atmosphere?" He didn't really give Molly much of a chance to answer in either the affirmative or the negative, before closing the small distance between them, and kissing her soundly. Very soundly, indeed.

When they finally pulled slowly apart, Sherlock was the first to speak. "That was very, uh, nice, don't you think?"

"Nice?" Molly squeaked.

"Actually, more like wonderful, life-changing, spectacular, but I wanted to leave some room for improvement to encourage you to continue."

"Really? You mean it? You liked it?"

"Obviously, I rather more than liked it, Molly. I told you, I always say exactly what I mean! Why do you never believe me?"

"I always believe you, Sherlock. I don't think you'd lie to me."

"Then why, when I said you were the one who mattered the most to me, did you not believe me? Don't answer. I know it's my fault. I'm not good at this kind of thing. And you were engaged to the meat dagger fellow at the time. I probably should have snogged you right then and there, good manners be damned. Maybe you would have believed me then, Molly."

"Yeah, that mighta done it, Sherlock." Molly said, before launching herself at the man next to her, to see if she could improve on "wonderful, life-changing, and spectacular". And she thought that she had managed to do just that by the time Sherlock pushed her gently away, and, grabbing her hand, pulled her to her feet to lead her back to the house. "Molly, we should discuss the sleeping arrangements."

"Maybe you could forget about the trundle bed, Sherlock", the pathologist said with a rather coquettish smile.

"I never had any intention of sleeping in that godforsaken thing, Molly. The only living thing that ever slept there was Redbeard, and even he whined half the night!"

"But you said…"

"I said there was a trundle bed in my room, not that I intended to sleep on it. Really, Molly, if this is going to work out, you're going to have to learn to pay closer attention! I also told you my mother had it installed for sleepovers with friends, and, as we are about to become so much more than friends, I would suggest that you forget about its existence completely. Unless we acquire a pet. Or a child. Whichever comes first!" He moved the hand he was holding to his lips, and kissed it gently. "And I hope this means that I can forget about having that conversation with my mother. You know, the one where I set her straight about our relationship. Since I have just set you straight about our relationship!"

"Sherlock, you're not doing this simply to avoid trouble with your mother, are you?"

The detective stopped in his tracks, and looked at his companion with a serious expression. "Molly, listen to me. While I am certainly loathe to admit it, I am sometimes slightly trepidatious about facing my mother's sharp tongue. Even so, I am more afraid of your rather sharper scalpels. And even more terrified of hurting you, or losing you!"

"Then I think you can forego the conversation with your mother, Sherlock, although from now on you can field the questions about when you will be ready to settle down, and how many children you want. And, by the way, I love you."

"I will handle any further inquiries from Mummy, my love, although not without consultation with you. And I do hope you mean exactly what you say, as much as I do."

"Every bloody word, Sherlock. Every bloody word!" Molly exclaimed as she launched herself at his chest, and clung to him in the silvery moonlight.


End file.
